I’m exhausted. The nicotine and the THC are battling it out inside my body, and the stimulant in them is about to get reinforcement from the cup of coffee I just brewed and will soon drink. It’s nearly 11pm, and after a long weekend filled with pleasant surprises and late nights, I should be going to bed.
I love to sing. There was a time when I would lock myself in the bathroom and turn on the hair dryer – or I’d get in my car and drive with no particular destination – so I could sing as loudly and freely as I wished to, without fear of being heard by neighbors. Now I can’t help but sing out loud while walking the dog, I can’t help but turn up the music and belt out words as soon as I get home from work. It’s a shot of life that courses speedily through my veins.
I need a shot before succumbing to sleep, so I’m pacing the floor as I wait for the coffee to cool. I don’t have the body of my 17 year-old self – the one who would be up on a Friday at 6am for school, drive immediately after to a 6hr restaurant job shift, dash home for a shower and change, hop back in the car for a 45min drive to a night of dancing, flirting, kissing, Dunkin’ Donuts stops at 3am, followed shortly by a 10hr shift at aforementioned restaurant job. I’m certainly not she in body, but I think I’ll always be in mind. I can’t sleep, I won’t sleep because… I haven’t written in over two months. I think the words, I rearrange them in my head, I punctuate them into phrases and sentences. I rearrange the sentences. I think up a title and an outline, maybe even come up with a tag item. But I know it – because I hear it now – there’s a low voice in the back of my mind that says, “eh, that’s boring. Who cares. You should do expense reports first.” I’m not sure why I’ve been listening to that bitch.
I find myself awake too because it’s that time of the year. Holidays, reflection, where have I been, where am I going, who do I love, am I worthy of great, sensual, long bouts of sex with an attractive, strong guy who will pull my hair and do other things?
[pause for recouping]
For some reason I’m filled with love for my family, my friends; my wonderful friends who make me laugh and feel fantastic in my own skin. I’m filled with positivity and hope and the clear, near tangent belief that age 28 will be the best I’ve had thus far. It’s soon approaching. I’m excited.
I think about the people I’ve met, the little things I’ve gotten out of them that will hopefully stay with me forever. I think about my poor neighbor and the time I called the cops on him because his party was loud and I was intolerant of the fun he was having. I think I’d rather not be that girl. I’d rather go talk to him and find out that he’s a really nice boy and I should bake him some cookies because while the neighborhood is fantastic, we have a mice infestation in the building and the superintendent is a jackass. No one told him that when he signed the year lease and that isn’t fair.
I think about my dog, how funny she is when she barks and runs in her sleep, how loving she is, how lucky I am to have this living teddy bear spending time with me, and I get sad when I notice the dark semi circles under her eyes. She’s getting old and I’m going to lose it when she’s no longer around.
Sometimes I wish I could share my thoughts with someone really special. And most of the time I feel lucky, content, and ready to go to bed when I realize how eager my tired fingers have been to transpose my silly thoughts. I think my life’s pretty great, I think I’m not perfect, I think I’m still as curious and giddy as I was at age 11, though with quite a few more tricks up my sleeve. I think I’m looking forward to Christmas and a New Year. I think I may need an Adderall tomorrow. I think I should remember to write about the night I was cracked out and homeless.